Body in the Big Apple

have you? Where would you get the time? And I’m catering this thing. Just ask Lucy.”

“Of course I’m not working for them, but it might be fun someday. They’re an exciting bunch. No, Phelps invited me. He’s a good friend of Adrian Sutherland.

They were at school together. You do know who Adrian is, don’t you?”

Faith had heard the name but couldn’t place it. “Remind me,” she said, looping her arm through her sister’s and pulling her in the direction of the kitchen. “I have to get some more food. They’re eating like lo-custs.”

“Adrian is Michael’s campaign manager and has also been with Stanstead Associates since it started.

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He’s Michael’s right-hand man. He was born here, but his father is British, so he has that cool accent. I’ve never actually met him, but I heard him on the news once. Everything he said sounded so terribly believ-able, so terribly important. He wants Phelps to work on the campaign, which is why he got invited.” A bell went off, and it wasn’t the oven timer. “Did you tell your new beau that you went to school with Emma?” Faith asked her sister.

“I might have. Why?”

“No reason, I just wondered. Now we’d better get out there before this gets cold. Plus, I want to meet your charming friend.”

A friend who might be looking to use Hope to in-gratiate himself with the party powers that be. Why else would he invite her to come along, especially when he was already a step removed himself from being asked by the host and hostess?

The crowd in the living room had increased substantially and, unlike many parties Faith had attended, nobody seemed in a rush to go on to the next—and at this time of year, there were plenty of nexts. But this tended to happen at the parties she catered. Josie was sure it was the food. “They want to scarf down the good stuff and then they won’t be stuck with greasy buffalo chicken wings and limp crudites wherever they’re going. They can just get loaded.” It was a possibility. They were even eating the fruit now.

“Phelps, I’d like you to meet my sister, Fay. Fay, Phelps Grant.” The young man turned from his conversation and shook Faith’s hand—she’d put her empty tray down—with every indication of pleasure.

Yes, preppy, but definitely attractive. Very attractive.

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Hope knew how to pick them—at least in this department.

“Hope tells me your catering business is doing very well, and after making a total pig of myself on all this, I’m not one bit surprised. I’m out all the time, but I haven’t had such good food in ages.”

“Thank you. That’s one of my problems—that New Yorkers eat out so much and at such great places. It’s a hard act to follow—or complement.”

“Well, you’ve certainly succeeded where others have perished.” He then proceeded to tell a mordantly funny story about a friend who had opened a restaurant down in SoHo and went bankrupt before opening. “He had no idea he’d have to think of anything but dishing out his grandmother’s secret spaghetti sauce recipe.

That was going to be the key to fame and fortune. He never got past the lighting fixtures.” Faith found herself liking him, but there was something about his polished delivery, and polished self, that still warned her to keep her guard up. Hope, of course, was looking at him the way a kid looks at her first puppy.

“Phelps, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” The man with whom Phelps had been in conversation before had turned away from a small group of people.

“You’re not interrupting at all. This is Hope Sibley—she’s with Citibank—and her sister . . .”

“Faith Sibley, the caterer. I knew the food was unusually good.” It was the man who’d come into the kitchen with Michael Stanstead the night Emma had made her panicked exit after receiving the first blackmail demand. “I’m not sure we were properly introduced the other night. My name is Adrian Sutherland.” Here was surprise number two—and three. Adrian 117

Sutherland was also the man who’d been sitting alone, reading the Wall Street Journal, at the American Festival Cafe at Rockefeller Center.

Lucy chose this moment to join the group. “Adrian, you’ll never guess. My glass is empty.” She held it out in front of her.

“Now, that will never do. Phelps here—you remember Phelps Grant—was just about to fetch a whole bottle of bubbly, weren’t you?” Phelps left instantly. So it was like that. Gunga Grant. Faith realized that as the caterer, she should be seeing to the libations herself, but her job as investigator was more important at the moment. She wanted to watch Lucy and Adrian. What was going on between the two?

“I see you know the Sibley girls,” Lucy continued in her slightly nasal, well-bred voice. She managed to make it sound as if Faith and Hope were still in braces, allowed to stay up for the party as a special treat.

“Not as well as I plan to. Especially you, Faith. I see many Stanstead events in your future.” Lucy looked piqued, and she moved closer to Adrian, leaning her head on his shoulder in a propri-etary gesture.

Adrian made no acknowledgment of her more intimate presence, nor did he shake her off. He looked older than the rest of them, and Faith wondered if he had been ahead of Phelps in school. Or maybe he was one of those people born looking old. He was attractive, but not handsome. However, his suit, his hairstyle, the way he carried himself, and even his shoes suggested wealth—and power. He didn’t need to be handsome.

Hope was asking about some party-sponsored event 118

on New Year’s Day, whether Michael would be speaking and, if so, officially announcing his candidacy for the House seat, about to be left vacant by the incumbent’s retirement. Stanstead would get the nomination.

That was a given. Winning the election was another matter.

“Come and find out. Ah, help is at hand!” Phelps was back with the champagne and pouring it for everyone. Faith incongruously found herself with a glass. “I don’t mean to be coy, but we, or I should say he, really haven’t decided yet. I do know one thing, though.” He held his glass up as if toasting. “I’m sorry we already hired a caterer.”

On that note, Faith excused herself with thanks and rushed back to the kitchen to maintain her reputation and to escape the lethal glances Lucy was slinging her way.

The fourth surprise was Richard Morgan.

Faith had returned with Josie to replenish the buffet table, where Jessica was still busy serving. He entered the room, made a beeline for the food, and stopped when he saw Faith.

“Terrific!” he said. “I assume you’re catering this affair, and I assume it’s delicious. Nobody who can dissect a menu the way you can could have impaired taste buds. Not to mention my delight at seeing you again so soon.” The night before, they’d eaten at a noodle place and gone to see Woody Allen’s new movie, Crimes and Misdemeanors. It had had a bit too much resonance for Faith at the moment. Richard had loved it.

“This is my assistant, Josie Wells. Josie, this is Richard Morgan.” Faith was beginning to feel less and less like the anonymous help, what with all these introductions.

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“Pleased to meet you. I have a thing for your boss.” Josie laughed out loud, shot Faith a look as she left, and said, “Get in line.”

“She’s loyal, very loyal,” Faith countered.

Richard was eating a large amount of caviar on a blini. “This does not shock—or deter—me at all.”

“I would love to stay and chat longer, but I have to get back in the kitchen,” Faith said. “But first, please, quickly satisfy my insatiable curiosity and tell me why you’re here. Did the Stansteads hire you to sing carols?”

“And well they might. No, my dear Faith—and I mean that—I am here in a reportorial capacity. I’m doing a profile on Michael Stanstead for The New Yorker and I’m trying to get as much done as possible before I have to leave town next week. Stanstead invited me here. To see him at home, just your average guy with your average multimillion-dollar apartment.” Faith was dismayed. Not that Richard was doing a profile on Michael. That should be interesting. But that Richard was leaving town so soon. If he was gone, how was she going